


get up, shake the rust

by nex_et_nox



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [2]
Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Flashbacks, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:47:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27643669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nex_et_nox/pseuds/nex_et_nox
Summary: Nureyev can deal with one game.The cards are dealt out. Nureyev picks up his, fanning them out to hide his face.The scars on his wrists throb.Thief, turn over a card.[Nureyev and card games in the aftermath of Season 1.]
Relationships: Peter Nureyev/Juno Steel
Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2021242
Comments: 21
Kudos: 189
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	get up, shake the rust

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brunchandtedium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brunchandtedium/gifts).



> warnings for flashbacks (obviously) + panic attacks and minor dissociation, brief internalized negativity from Nureyev about his own panic responses
> 
> thanks to @brunchandtedium for the request!
> 
> title from "Six Weeks" by Of Monsters and Men

Nureyev leaves Mars behind him as quickly as possible; he's on the first ship off the planet he can find. Taking this job was a mistake from start to finish —as was getting involved with Juno Steel.

Nureyev curses himself for even thinking the name. The detective is proving remarkably difficult to file away. Nureyev stares out the porthole at the stars streaking past. His reflection is pale, expression strained. 

The job was a _mistake._ Miasma was almost certainly planning to kill him from the beginning, and now, unless he decides to make the damn fool move of selling the Ruby 7, he didn’t even get any payment out of his long months on Mars. There's no way he's going to sell the Ruby, so in the end, all he's walking away with are several new scars and a broken heart.

He is _never_ coming back to Mars.  


* * *

He sets himself up on Danu. He doesn't feel like remaining within the Solar system, instead retreating to a Core planet that nearly crosses into the Mid-Rim.

Nureyev still has enough credits that he can rent a hotel suite for himself. It was a long flight to get here, so it's not surprising that he collapses onto the bed immediately. He barely bothers to remove his shoes and climb under the covers before he's drifting off to sleep.

He wakes in the middle of the night, rolling over and seeking out the warmth that should be there—

His eyes snap open. He remembers.

Nureyev rolls over again, his back to the empty space on the bed. He curls in on himself, trying to hold in more heat even without the living furnace that is — was — a certain detective.

Tired as he still is, it takes time before he manages to fall asleep once more.  


* * *

Nureyev spends his time on Danu planning his next jobs. He has debts to pay, after all. He can't afford not to keep moving. 

He'd chosen Danu because he has connections here. There are people he can reach out to about potential jobs, though after Miasma, he is feeling rather leery of accepting a job from an employer.

He reaches out anyway. He'll simply have to do a more thorough job of vetting his potential employers from now on.

Nureyev doesn’t only rely on his contacts, of course. He does some poking around of his own. There aren't many good opportunities for theft on Danu; as a planet, it's more of a way station than anything devoted to arts or culture. A few systems over, however, there's a possible job: it looks as though they'll be displaying a Rembrandt in one of Annwn's most famous museums. 

It's worth checking out, at any rate. He makes a note about it, then resumes his search. 

Around midday on the second day, Nureyev is too restless to remain in his suite. He touches up his make-up, checks that his sleeves are neatly cuffed as they should be, and he goes for a walk. 

Habit keeps him among crowds. Easy pickings. Nureyev drifts, dipping hands into pockets and purses as he goes. In its own way, it's a meditative practice for him. He lets his mind go blank and his feet take him where they will. 

By the time he returns to his hotel suite, at least a little of the tension has leaked out of his shoulders. He feels — not _better,_ exactly, because that implies a kind of resolution Nureyev hasn’t yet reached, but he's managed to regain a sense of equilibrium. He's centered in himself again.

He checks his comm after he lets himself in. One of his contacts has reached out to him. 

_Arsène,_ the message reads. _Got a gig on Hnoss. You interested?_

This contact has always introduced his friend Arsène to competent crews working lucrative heists. Relying on him every so often, despite Nureyev’s general one-thief show, hasn’t let him down yet. 

_What are the details?_ he sends back.   


* * *

Nureyev isn't much one for gambling. There are copious tools a thief can use to shift that nebulous concept of "luck" essential to gambling in their own direction. Counting cards, sleight of hand, rigging a game beforehand — Nureyev has practiced them all at some point or another. Some thieves and grifters are happy to spend their days haunting casinos and gambling dens, utilizing those exact skills. Nureyev doesn't find that interesting as a long-term strategy, and he certainly doesn't think it's worth the potential risk. He’ll stick to his heists, thank you.

That being said, sometimes the only way to get close to a target is at their favorite haunt. A café. A bar. A party. In one Deniel Quincy's case, his favorites happen to be casinos. 

Nureyev — currently Rana Gold — pastes a smile on his face as Quincy leads him inside. He slips off his coat, handing it off to be checked and then quickly reclaiming his position on his date's arm. It is going to be another long evening in this tedious man's company, but he has information Nureyev needs. 

Nureyev spends most of the night hanging off of Quincy's arm, being a vapid good luck charm as the man play game after game, growing steadily more drunk as the evening progresses. Nureyev has nearly managed to get the last of what he needs from the man, winding the information out of him with well-placed questions in between rounds of gambling and libations, when—

"Why don't you have your date join us this round?" someone asks. "Or are you afraid you won't be able to beat us without your new good luck charm?" 

There are soft snickers around the table. 

"I can beat you any day of the week, Barrett," Quincy scoffs. "Deal a hand for Rana here." 

"Oh, I'm really not—” Nureyev tries to protest. 

"It's just one game," Quincy says impatiently. He’s starting to frown at Nureyev.

Nureyev needs the last of that information. He can't get on his target's bad side when he's so close. He slides off his perch on the side of Quincy's chair and into a seat of his own. 

_It's only one game,_ he tells himself. It doesn’t make him want to play anymore than when Quincy had said it.

But Nureyev can deal with one game. 

The cards are dealt out. Nureyev picks up his, fanning them out to hide his face. 

The scars on his wrists throb. 

_Thief, turn over a card._

Nureyev's breath catches in his throat. He stares at his cards sightlessly, trying to focus on the here and now—

"Your turn, Rana," Quincy says, nudging him none too gently. 

Nureyev pretends to be startled by the nudge and reaches out too quickly. He 'accidentally' knocks against Quincy's full cocktail glass. It tips, spilling the lurid red drink it contains all over the table.

Nureyev snatches his hand back. 

"Oh, dear," he says, faking dismay at the action. The tremble in his voice is real enough, if not for the reasons the others at this table might think. "I do apologize — I was too caught up in strategy, and I’m so clumsy when I drink—”

Lies. 

He's only been pretending to drink this entire evening. He hasn't tried to match Quincy's rate of indulgence, but he's been doing just enough to fit in, to excuse the way he keeps curling closer into Quincy and flirting information out of him. He's been trading full glasses for emptier ones the whole time. He is in no way tipsy enough to have made this kind of mistake. 

It was absolutely on purpose. 

"I'll go get you another drink," Nureyev says apologetically, laying his hand on Quincy's shoulder gently. Suggestively. 

"Yes, yes," Quincy says, waving a hand irritably. "We'll move elsewhere. You!" He beckons a waiter over. "Clean this up."

"Of course, sir," the waiter murmurs.

Nureyev walks away to do as he's said he would. Half of his mind is going over the situation, making sure he can still salvage it and get safely away with what he needs. It should have seemed an entirely innocent mishap, and Nureyev is experienced enough at this kind of job that he'll be able to soothe away any annoyance Quincy might feel about Rana’s little accident. It will be fine. 

It will be fine. 

(The other half of Nureyev's mind is back in that tomb. Branching scars on his wrists and up his arms, carefully hidden by concealer and delicate bracelets, burn with remembered pain like they're new.)  


* * *

Nureyev learns his lesson. He doesn't get involved in card games anymore. 

He keeps applying creams to his wrists, hoping to soften the scars there. The wounds were too severe and untreated too long for him to have escaped scarring, so he has to make do with what he can. They lose their redness, slowly, but they're still terribly visible. He was never one for short sleeves, but now it's a matter of course to wear long sleeves instead. 

Treating and covering those scars becomes another part of Nureyev's daily make-up routine. 

By the time Nureyev joins the _Carte Blanche_ crew, by the time he and Juno have reconciled, the routine has become normalized. He's so used to hiding them by now that he doesn’t even think about it anymore, going through the familiar motions without thought. Juno was there when those scars were wounds, and so he obviously knows about them, but Nureyev never brings them up and neither does he. 

Nureyev doesn't stop to consider that there are some things that even he excels too much at disguising.   


* * *

"Rita has suggested holding a game night rather than watching streams," Buddy says during dinner one evening. 

"Oh, God," Juno groans. He drops his spoon in his soup. "Rita—”

"Mistah _Steel,_ it's been _so long_ since you played a game of Go Dig with me—” Rita pouts. 

"Because you always _cheat_ —”

“—and I miss playin' games and Captain A said it sounded like a great idea!" She looks eagerly toward Buddy. "So what kinda game are we gonna play? Is it gonna be a team game? Ooh, ooh, if it's a team game could I be on _your_ team, Captain?"

"Hey," Juno says, sounding betrayed. 

"I hadn't planned specifically for team games," Buddy says. "I thought I'd bring it up to the family first." He gaze sweeps over them. "Any suggestions?" 

"Truth or dare?" Juno says uncertainly. 

Vespa snorts. "What are we, teenagers?" 

"No, I just thought — if Buddy's using this as some kind of family bonding experience, it'd be a good way to get to know each other," Juno says, defensive. 

"Juno raises a valid point," Nureyev says. He feels distant from himself as he speaks. "What _kind_ of games are we talking? Do we even have board games on this ship?"

Buddy shrugs. "No board games so far as I'm aware, Pete. We can always pick some up later if we need them. In the meantime, I do have a few packs of cards." So saying, she places two decks on the table. 

_She came prepared,_ Nureyev thinks, frozen. 

"I'm vetoing Go Dig here and now," Juno says, ignoring Rita's immediate whine. 

"Go D—? Ah, of course, no waters on Mars. We always called it Go Fish or Go Float," Buddy says. She smirks at Juno. "Juno, surely since Rita was the one to suggest game night, she should be allowed first choice of the game...?"

"She _cheats,_ " Juno stresses. 

"Cheat back," Vespa says. "Or do you just really suck at Go Search the Nest that much, Steel?" 

"I am _excellent_ at Go Dig when no one _cheats,_ " Juno says. 

"Juno," Buddy says pityingly. "Do you really think banning Rita from cheating will keep her or any of us from doing it anyway?" 

In any other circumstance, the dawning realization on Juno's face when he realizes that he's agreed to play cards with a bunch of thieves would be amusing. As it is, Nureyev is too busy with keeping his sudden disquiet contained and trying to find a way out of this. 

No plan occurs to him. His mind is blanking out in a haze of steadily growing panic. 

Nureyev finishes the meal on autopilot. He helps clear the table for the game likewise, and by the time he is sitting down next to Juno again, he still has found no excuse that Buddy might accept. 

Buddy shuffles both decks together. They're the same brand and style, so no one will be making any guesses based on differing cards. Nureyev notes this in the part of his mind that is always focussed on such details. 

It's just a card game. It's just _one_ card game. He can fake his way through one game, and then he can make something up. He'll have come up with an excuse, found some way to duck out, by the time one game has been played. 

He can do this. 

_One game. One game, one game, one game,_ he chants mentally, as if that will protect him. 

Nureyev picks up the hand he's been dealt. He commits them to memory, then reminds himself that he doesn't have to do that. He doesn't need to focus all his attention on them, holding the image of the cards in his mind for Juno to see. In fact, it's better if he doesn't. He should ignore them as much as possible.

He looks away from his cards. Vespa, left of the dealer, goes first. 

"Steel, you got any twos?" 

"Go dig," Juno says. 

Vespa yanks a card from the deck with a grumble, and then it's Jet's turn. 

"Buddy," he says. "Do you have any fives?"

She sighs, handing one over. 

It's Nureyev's turn. 

"Sevens, Jet?" Nureyev asks, making his voice as light and breezy as he can. 

Jet hands over two sevens, a slight frown on his face. Nureyev folds them into his hand. He only needs one more to make a suit. He exhales slowly. 

Juno follows Nureyev, Rita follows him, Buddy follows her, and then they're back to the top of the order with Vespa.

Nureyev wins a three and a queen, then loses his queens immediately to Rita. The small wins don't relax him; they make him coil tighter.

_One game,_ he reminds himself. 

"Vespa. Aces?" Nureyev asks. 

Vespa clicks her tongue. "Go search the nest, Ransom," she says. 

Nureyev swallows. 

It isn't the same deck as Miasma's. These are playing cards, suits and numbers instead of specific shapes of specific colors. They're not even the same size or stock card. 

None of that stops Nureyev's hand from shaking as he reaches for the deck.

All he has to do is make it through one game. All he has to do is draw one card and turn it over. 

If Nureyev doesn't do this, she'll hurt him. 

If Nureyev _does,_ he'll have to listen to Juno's screams. 

Juno needs to rest. He can't take much more of this. Nureyev can handle the pain. If it gives Juno even one more moment to recover, Nureyev _can_ handle the pain. 

He doesn't draw a card.

"No," Nureyev says. He braces himself for Miasma's reprisal. 

An irritated sigh. "Just draw a card. Unless you can—”

"I said _no,_ Miasma," Nureyev snaps. "I will _not_." 

He glares up—

—to meet Vespa and Buddy's surprised expressions. 

Nureyev isn't in that tomb. He isn't restrained. No one is going to hurt him for refusing to draw a card. 

Miasma is dead. 

"Ransom," Juno says from beside him. He sounds horrified. 

Nureyev has drawn his hands back at some point, cradling them protectively against his chest. His hand of cards is scattered on the table where he must have dropped them. 

Everyone is staring at him. He realizes he is shaking, a full body tremor, and he doesn't know how to stop it. He's having difficulty enough controlling his breathing without trying to focus on that, too. 

“I—I—” he stutters uselessly. He has to get through this game. Once the game is over, it will be _fine_. He needs this to be over with, but he’s holding the game up, so he has to get them moving again. Why is it so hard to _think_? “S-sorry. We can keep—”

"Shit, no," Juno says interrupts him. "We're not going to keep playing. Ransom, you should have said something." He looks abruptly guilty. " _I_ should have said something." 

"It's fine," Nureyev says, barely above a whisper. "It's just a game. Just one game. I can handle one game." 

That's what he'd told himself, at least. The mantra hadn't done anything to help him. It isn't doing anything now, either. 

Silently, Buddy starts gathering up the cards. 

"We're done," she says. 

"You don't — don't have to stop on my account," Nureyev says miserably. His wrists ache. 

"Pete," Buddy says. “This is supposed to be a relaxing evening for all of us. You shouldn't feel forced to play a game that will cause you distress."

Nureyev hunches in on himself. He can't help but take that as a criticism. It's such a _stupid_ thing to panic over, and everyone else had been having fun with it until he went and ruined it for them all. 

Nureyev can't do anything right with this crew—

Juno's jacket settles over Nureyev's shoulders, bringing sudden warmth. Nureyev hadn't even noticed him removing it. 

He pulls it further around himself. His shaking doesn't stop, not yet, but it's comforting. Nureyev hates being cold. 

"Ransom," Juno says softly. "Are you okay?" 

"Of course I am," Nureyev lies. 

Juno obviously doesn't believe him, but he doesn't argue with Nureyev. He sits there with Nureyev as the rest of the crew finish sorting the cards back into their individual decks and put them away. 

A tight coil of tension inside Nureyev loosens as soon as those decks are out of sight. His breathing — still not quite right, hitching oddly here and there — finally evens out. 

Now that the rush of panic is ebbing, embarrassment has room to sneak in. 

"Excuse me," he says, not meeting any of the crew's eyes as he shakily stands and leaves the kitchen.   


* * *

Juno knocks on his door half an hour later. Nureyev is sitting on the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his knees, glasses discarded, head buried in his hands.

"Come in," Nureyev says. 

Juno doesn't say anything as he walks into Nureyev’s room. He sits next to Nureyev, pressing his shoulder against Nureyev's in silent comfort. Nureyev leans into it. 

The silence stretches out between them. Juno isn’t going to make the first move here, letting Nureyev be the one to decide what he wants. 

"I almost blew a con," Nureyev says apropos of nothing, abruptly deciding to treat this like just another one of their evening talks. "Couldn't talk myself out of the game. I knocked over a drink so they would let me out of it. I haven't been able to—”

He stops. Restarts. "There was no excuse I could give they would accept."

Even Nureyev isn't sure if he's talking about that casino con or this evening.

"You don't have to have any reason more than ‘I don’t want to’. You don’t have to feel like you have to explain anything more than you’re comfortable with, especially when it’s with us,” Juno says. "And — if you felt like you needed an excuse, I could have backed you up. I’ll always back you up if you need me to.” He shakes his head. "I didn't even think about the fact that the game might be a problem." 

Nureyev finally lowers his hands away from his face. They rest down in his lap, his usual bracelets removed and the concealer washed away so he could slather more cream on his scars. 

Juno draws in a pained breath at the sight of them.

"Nureyev..."

"Ugly, aren't they," Nureyev says more than asks. 

"I didn't realize they were so — no. I knew. I saw them then.” Juno’s hand drift up toward his right eye, seemingly unconsciously. “I knew what they looked like. I just didn't think it through. I didn’t think about—” 

Nureyev snorts. “We don’t _quite_ have matching scars, but we did get them around the same time, and we were a _bit_ busy during that particular misadventure,” he says with dark humor. "On the whole, though, I think losing an eye ranks higher on the priorities list than a few cosmetic scars and an inability to play card games.”

"Are they, though?" Juno asks. "Cosmetic?"

Nureyev shrugs. "For the most part."

"...Do they still hurt?" 

"Not often." Not anymore. Not unless it's under rather specific circumstances, and Nureyev is well aware that the pain when that occurs is purely psychological. 

Unfortunately, pain is one of the few items that refuses to allow itself to be filed neatly away.

Nureyev can see Juno winding himself up for some kind of speech or apology, probably for letting Nureyev be tortured while the exact same thing was happening to him in the next room. 

“I never particularly liked card games anyway,” Nureyev says, aiming for a light tone and trying to break the tension. “Between Rangian street poker and Miasma, I’m content leaving that part of my criminal past behind me.” 

Juno still looks like he wants to say something. 

“I’m the one who dragged you into the case with Miasma in the first place,” Nureyev says, more seriously. “If there’s blame, it should probably be laid at my feet.” He sighs. “At least this way I’m alive.” If Juno hadn’t stepped in, he wouldn’t be. 

“You’re severely underestimating just how good I am at sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong,” Juno says. 

Nureyev lets out a tired laugh. 

“…Is there anything I can do?" Juno asks. 

"No," Nureyev says bluntly. Then, "You can be here, Juno. That's enough."

Nureyev will have to deal with the rest of the crew on his own terms. He’ll have to decide what, if anything, to tell them. The thought exhausts him. He liked it so much better when he could pretend Peter Ransom was perfect and untouchable. 

Juno lays a hand next to Nureyev's, an open offer.

Nureyev takes it. 

It's enough for now. It’s more than enough. 

**Author's Note:**

> cheers to the server for helping me come up with alternative titles for Go Fish. if anyone's curious, the complete list ended up being Go Dig, Go Search (the Nest), Go Fly (Away), Go Float, and Go Fuck Yourself, the last of which my friends and I play with each other and Vespa probably also loves

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] get up, shake the rust](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28505883) by [GoLBPodfics (GodOfLaundryBaskets)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GodOfLaundryBaskets/pseuds/GoLBPodfics)




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